Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marcel Beyer

Sedge

Sedge stands over the land, stands
suspended, quite still. Sedge stands,
I hear nothing, in the light, you still
see pewter-grass and wattle
to your left, and weight. Questions
echo in the sedge, the clouds above,
the face, even the breathing is
implicated in the talk. But the state
of the sedge, as of the implication,
remains uncertain. The dust,
the smell, the sedge, bows down,
you speak, it stretches far into
burning April, I see nothing.

Schilf

Schilf

Schilf steht auch über Land, steht
in der Schwebe, still. Schilf steht,
ich höre nichts, im Licht, du siehst
noch Schachtelhalm und Flechtwerk
linker Hand, und Tracht. Die Fragen
klingen nach im Schilf, die Wolken
oben, das Gesicht, das Atmen wird
noch in die Rede eingewoben. Doch
wie es um das Schilf steht, wie um
das Gewebe, ungewiß. Der Staub,
der Qualm, das Schilf neigt sich,
du sprichst, reicht weit bis in den
brennenden April, ich sehe nichts.
Close

Sedge

Sedge stands over the land, stands
suspended, quite still. Sedge stands,
I hear nothing, in the light, you still
see pewter-grass and wattle
to your left, and weight. Questions
echo in the sedge, the clouds above,
the face, even the breathing is
implicated in the talk. But the state
of the sedge, as of the implication,
remains uncertain. The dust,
the smell, the sedge, bows down,
you speak, it stretches far into
burning April, I see nothing.

Sedge

Sedge stands over the land, stands
suspended, quite still. Sedge stands,
I hear nothing, in the light, you still
see pewter-grass and wattle
to your left, and weight. Questions
echo in the sedge, the clouds above,
the face, even the breathing is
implicated in the talk. But the state
of the sedge, as of the implication,
remains uncertain. The dust,
the smell, the sedge, bows down,
you speak, it stretches far into
burning April, I see nothing.
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